Stone Muses
by azadi786
Summary: Zacharias Smith and Daphne Greengrass. They are the victims of time, lamenting past, present and future.


Stone Muses:

The light of early dawn creeps hesitantly into the sparse living room, steadily gathering courage and devouring the dark shadows. He is standing, has been now for the past hour. His stance is listless, the usual pompous demeanour lost. Now, he simply stares dispassionately out of the window, his gaze falling onto the cheerfully trundling cars, and the purposeful stride of pedestrians below him.

He will think of her in a moment; when he catches sight of an un-particular brunette swathed in a green scarf. He'll think of the mundane where and how she is, perhaps moving onto the more important does she miss him. Or he may be shallow and simply think of her; the husky brown sheen of her hair, the softness of her skin, the graceful glide of her walk and the baleful click of the door as it swung shut behind her.

The light gathers strength and he is forced to blink and look away. His face has all the peculiarities of a tragic work of art; straw-coloured stubble marring his jaw, cerulean eyes bleak and bloodshot, the grey hollow of his cheeks merging with the bruised shadows under his eyes. All of it meticulously thrown together in a macabre display of heartache.

He peers around the living room and spies a red sweater slung haphazardly over the settee. He reaches for it and finds it is soft and pliant under his hands, a distant echo of its owner during some of their more intimate moments. He inhales the lingering scent, that unique blend of jasmine and something unequivocally _her_ and his breath catches. His mind jars back to that evening; the sweater falling limply from his slackened hands…

_They are dancing happily, their shadows casting a giddy image on the leaf littered ground. Their breaths curl in fragile plumes, clinging to the air for a moment, and then blending into the jewelled October sky. The distant roar of London is behind them, the peaceful silence only disturbed by their shoes crunching rhythmically on the fallen leaves. Her head is resting against his shoulder, his hands placed on her slender waist, and in that moment they may have looked like something whimsical out of a fairy tale._

"_Does it bother you?" It's a question that's been plaguing her for a while. He can tell by the rehearsed timbre and hesitant breath before it was spoken. _

"_Not really," he answers truthfully. Indeed, that black blemish on her arm has no effect on him whatsoever. Not even when he wakes up in the middle of the night, doused in a frigid sweat; the hysterical fragments of a dream, depicting her mangled corpse in a field clinging stubbornly to his mind. Nor when he opens the _Prophet_ and scans apathetically the list of Death Eaters either dead or caught, even though inside, his heart lurches at every name beginning with a D. No it does not bother him._

"_And even if it did, you'd hardly tell me?" She laughs, no mirth lacing her words._

_He sighs as she steps out of his arms and moves to stand under a tree, wrapping her arms around herself as she walks. Her face is set, hair swirling gently as the wind strokes it. He marvels at the fact that even nature cannot resist her. Even nature wants to touch her, hold her, capture some part of her and cherish that moment graced with her essence._

"_Why?" She whispers, but he can still hear the hitch and sharp intake of breath. He walks up behind her and gently wraps his arm around her lithe figure. For all the light afforded they could have been ancient statues calling upon the Greek muses from their stony slumber._

"_You know exactly why Daphne."_

_She meets his steady gaze and he urges her with hopeful eyes to see what his soul dreams of in the dead of night, when his only companion is the waning moon. He urges her to see the white bricked home with a modest garden and picket fence; rainy days spent curled up on a sofa in front of a merry fire; small muddy boots indolently left on the porch and the delighted squeals of childish laughter. And then the same porch with two rocking chairs occupied by an ageing couple holding hands; a throng of children littered at their feet listening to the end of an epic story - their story. And as the sun dips into the horizon, casting ruby shadows along their home, a feeling of complete and utter contentment. But deep down he knows that all she sees is a dank cell and all she feels is the clanging phantoms of Better Times wandering insolently through her mind. He knows but won't say._

He trails through the house like a despondent ghost. Her scent assails him every now and again as he looks at items and articles that were once hers. His mindless gait leads him to the kitchen. He has avoided it until now, the memories still thrumming painfully in his mind's eye. He notes the smashed cup and streaks of polish soiling the pristine floor with a morbid sort of detachment. Amidst the shards of debris he glimpses a strand of hair – a chestnut tress that sparkles with a husky sheen. As he kneels down and takes the wisp between his fingers, he finds that this fragile reminder cuts more viciously through his numb exterior, than anything else …

_The pounding at the door becomes heavier, more insistent with each passing second. She is frantic, running around the house as she searches for her misplaced wand. He's in the bedroom hiding her clothes, shoes and any other indication that a Miss Daphne Greengrass was ever there. The pounding ceases abruptly and a ringing silence echoes through the house. But it is only to be replaced by a thunderous BANG as Aurors troop in methodically, swarming the place like a fiendish plague. _

_She is in the kitchen when they spot her. As she backs away from their advancement she knocks over a tea cup on the counter. It teeters for a moment, hopeful that it will avoid catastrophe. Time slows down and it seems all attention is gathered on the cup as it sways precariously back and forth, round and round. Then, with one last pirouette it tumbles to the floor and without any further ceremony they bind her hands. _

_She puts up little fuss, the knowledge that it is finally over beats in her body as surely as her own blood. He tumbles out of the bedroom and rushes out to her, unmindful of the thirty or so Aurors currently residing in his house. They gather around him blocking both his path and view. Between the nooks and crannies of limbs and elbows he catches a glimpse of her being marched out while being recited her alleged rights. He calls out but there is too much commotion for her to hear him. He grows irrational, his efforts double in an attempt to get to her and the more restraint the Aurors show him the more crazed he becomes. In the end it takes a stunning spell to the back to restrain him. He falls to the floor, but as he does he thinks he can remember her mouthing "I love you" before the unwanted darkness envelops him. He thinks but is unsure._

The light spills into the kitchen and illuminates him sitting on the floor clutching the stand of a beautiful dream. With the morning comes the unavoidable truth that she is gone; the rest of her days to be spent in a prison. With her goes the scent, the white bricked home, the muddy boots and laughter. The only epic story to be told will be the one of how those savage Death Eaters were caught and thrown into prison. The only feeling that lingers in his soul is that of tedious solitude and a bitter, bitter longing for a girl he can no longer have.


End file.
